Persimmon tree

  That winter afternoon, I wandered in the mountains. There are many persimmon trees in the ditch and fork on both sides of the mountain road. They all lost their leaves in the cold wind, leaving only the red fruits on the branches. They looked inexplicably joyful.
  The translucent dots of red burned out the Manye Qiuliang one by one. The old persimmon tree, like a drunk land old man, just smiled in silence and watched.
  However, even if the old tree is quiet, it seems to be mad. Kazuki’s little branches ran wildly in the air, running unstoppable, like someone shouting commands invisibly, going forward, forward, forward, forward, forward, forward. They attacked from all sides, circling vigorously, madly.
  People walking towards such old trees always appear tender, thin, and weak. No matter how vicissitudes are, in front of it, you are immature and soft. When people approached the persimmon tree, they curled up like a child and plunged into a pile of lanterns.
  The jumping red is refreshing, slightly cool and bleak. Who can tell, the frost-red persimmon tree is a bit enthusiastic and a bit cool. Just think, let it burn quietly and coolly, let the dry bones burn a few more beautiful fires.
  Time slowed down. This rare and splendid Muqiu, like a long time, can’t move the nest.
  However, the north wind is raging, like encirclement and suppression, to put out all colors. The red lanterns were beaten by the wind, and faint red shadows flashed on the branches. Shaking from side to side, swaying up and down, bumping, and tossing, it makes people worry about the persimmon’s safety, and even fear.
  When the strong wind stopped slightly, I looked at the branches–most of the red lanterns were still hanging there, which seemed quite safe. How much pain and anxiety are hidden behind them?
  If you dare not look at the ground, you must guess that there are always some hapless people who cannot withstand bad luck, falling to the ground in the wind, scattered into a pool of red mud. The red mud burst, like a flame jet, fierce and tragic.
  Persimmon is a wishful fruit. On the branch, it burns mellowly and perfectly; when it falls, it burns in pieces and burns into a flame of sap splashing. In this sense, the soft persimmon has a kind of hard bones: there is no skinny, but there is no lack of texture, or in other words, its skinny is hidden in its texture. The strong wind blows through the persimmon tree, and it has never changed its red persistence; the frost is bitter, it removes the hostility and greenness, and the heart becomes more sweet.
  Astringent, mad, hard piercing; after a field of wind and frost, the skin becomes thinner, the meat becomes softer, and the taste is more beautiful. When you think it is gorgeous, it is actually very ordinary; when you think it is ordinary, it has an unexpected side.
  Looking back, it is a persimmon, a simple persimmon, red like a fire like a heart, like a persimmon with a smile. When time goes by, degenerate, mature, and cherish. In the spring breeze season, do not miss the spring breeze; when hoarfrost comes, do not avoid hoarfrost. At the most lonely moment, enjoy loneliness; when there is a strong wind in your destiny, put aside all doubts, dance and enjoy the passionate wind.
  The red persimmon is covered with white frost, and the red persimmon becomes more crystal clear.
  Tonight, I am in my study, thinking of the persimmon tree on the hill. I sat for too long, my waist was stiff, my legs were sore, and my feet almost grew roots in the ground. In the dimness, both arms spread out and opened leaves, blooming jasper-like flowers. Oh dear, am I a tree in time? A long-lasting persimmon tree.
  Ten years, twenty years, I live silently by keeping time. Now, the frost outside the window will cover the earth again, and the frost in my heart will accumulate season after season. My branches are covered with crystal clear red persimmons, each one is my heart that has been rubbed by the wind and frost. Incarnate tens of billions, no acquaintance.

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